


Holding Out [Arms] for a Hero

by Rhyolight



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 221B Duplex, Fluff, I never write RPF, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Made me feel better, Not too weird, RPF, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Wish Fulfillment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-14
Updated: 2014-02-14
Packaged: 2018-01-12 08:40:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1184189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhyolight/pseuds/Rhyolight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I have misgivings about Season Three. Thinking about one possible scenario next spring was soothing. I don't think this RPF would make anyone flinch. It's short, anyhow.</p><p>Happy Valentine's Day, my fandom! I love you all!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Holding Out [Arms] for a Hero

Benedict had sat the among the BAFTA nominees before, several times in fact; but the congratulations had come to others. His joy for them had been completely sincere, though the disappointment always twisted.

This time, the presenter for ‘Best actor in a leading role’ opened the envelope and said his name. Sue and Amanda fell on him simultaneously; Mark helped him out of the embrace to send him, managing not to stumble, toward the podium. It was very noisy, dark, and crowded, and that was only the way it was inside his mind. People patted him as he passed by; apparently he was a popular choice.

By the time he reached the steps his training clicked in, and the short, graceful speech he had composed under his mother’s gentle threats came to his lips, hardly halting at all. Martin had presented for Best Animated Film and stood pulling faces in the wings. Ben estimated he had another forty-seven seconds. Good enough. “And as always, it’s the work of the people around us that makes any actor look good. I am more fortunate than most having Martin Freeman at my side, whose mastery of his craft and and all-out daft behaviour make my days more productive and infinitely more fun.” Cheers. “We had a bet, I believe?”

 

“We did,” Martin said, joining him at the mike. “Right then. People have waited long enough and it’ll never happen any other time. Sherlock?”

“John,” he replied, watching the change come over his co-star; somehow rumpling, pulling in—this was the injured John Watson—; Ben knew he himself seemed to grow taller, more posh, and more dangerous. They hadn’t rehearsed, of course, but their arms went around smoothly, pulling one another in. Their lips met. John giggled. They held the kiss a heartbeat longer; he felt hands in his hair. Sherlock looked deep into John’s eyes; they broke, into themselves once more. The crowd was whooping, laughing, cheering. 

“Martin.”

“Benedict.”

“Shall we tell them who won the bet?”

“Never.”

Martin faded back to the wings; Ben turned back to the crowd. “We, all of us, thank all of you who support us and our show, and if Arthur Conan Doyle is spinning in his grave more than he has been since 2010, we apologise.” He made a little gesture with the award, smiled again—he couldn’t help it—and made his way back down through waves of applause.

Steven punched him in the arm. “Wanker.” Ben smiled radiantly, with teeth. Ben muttered “Just borrowing him,” to Amanda. She laughed.

“Rather a lot of tongue, there,” Mark said.

“Fuck you. I won a BAFTA.”


End file.
